


Blood Lust

by primanocta



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Skyrim
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Castle Volkihar (Elder Scrolls), Character Turned Into Vampire, F/M, Human/Vampire Relationship, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Slow Burn, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24671509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primanocta/pseuds/primanocta
Summary: After being hired by the Dovahkiin as a spellsword and glorified baggage carrier, Amalthea is suddenly plummeted into the violent and crazed world of a vampire clan bent on destroying the sun, and the attentions of one of its leader's right hand men.
Relationships: Female Breton Character(s)/Vingalmo (Elder Scrolls), Serana (Elder Scrolls)/Original Character(s), Serana (Elder Scrolls)/Original Male Character(s), Vingalmo / Original Female Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Blood Lust

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

_Eighteen Months Earlier_

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

As Amalthea marched towards the southern gates of Riften, covered in water and grime, she was already thinking of a few choice words for Romlyn Dreth once she got back inside the city. Reaching the gates, a guard had asked her to pay the toll, until she shot him a scathing look and he quickly opened the gate for her. The damned idiot had seen her leave, he wasn’t going to get any silver out of her. 

Marching through dryside and over the bridge, Amalthea continued ahead muttering under her breath, gaining her a few strange looks. That strange merchant was hawking elixirs and potions again, and when she had drunkenly called him out of lies in the pub a few nights before, she had received a surprise beating from one of his friend’s as she had stumbled back to the bunkhouse. 

“You’re pretty observant aren’t you lass? But I know you’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life, we could use someone like you” he had told her, looking down at her on the floor as her nose bled, and she had spat a mouthful of blood back at him in response, earning her a kick in the ribs. The sound of easy money did appeal to her, but she had heard about the Thieves Guild’s bad luck and had no interest in rotting inside Mistveil dungeons. It was a reckless action of hers, brought on by the strong honningbrew mead, as she didn’t exactly cut an intimidating figure. She had inherited her Bretony mother’s short, lithe figure and the tanned, freckled olive skin, sleek black hair and brown eyes from her Imperial father, though none of his speechcraft. It was her magicka she sold, more specifically her power as a spellsword, and since her graduation from the College of Winterhold, she had bounced from city to village in search of work. 

Very few people actually hired her for what she sold herself as, instead she accompanied travelers and wagons from place to place for protection: most of her money came from doing the odd jobs that people didn’t want to do, retrieving stolen items or accompanying them to intimidate someone who had wronged them. Amalthea saw no shame in this work, it paid for her to stay in various taverns and put food in her belly and she worked until the jobs dried up and moved on. She had no intention of returning to her father and his farm, to the mundane safety of his life: the last time they had spoken they had argued, he had expressed his disappointment in her going to study destruction magick over something safer like illusion or alteration. 

“In case you haven’t noticed Amalthea there’s a war going on” he had berated her, “with skills like that they might expect you to fight”. 

“I have no intention in joining the fight” she had bit back, “but I can’t stay and die here like my mother” she hadn’t intended the cruelty in her words, but her sentiment was right, she was bored of rural life. 

  
  
  


Her body had driven her through muscle memory whilst her mind was distracted, and soon she found herself banging on the wooden door of Dreth’s home, her hands balling at her side as she waited for him to answer. 

“Ah I’m glad to see  _ y- _ ” the dunmer’s words were cut off when her fist hit him square in the face, and Almathea took the opportunity of him reeling backwards to step into his house and close the door behind them. 

“An  _ easy _ job you said” Amalthea spat at him, watching him wipe the blood from his nose. 

“Instead I had to wrestle a guard into unconsciousness just so I could escape!” her eyes blazed with anger and the dunmer slowly realised what she had said. 

“Were you caught?” he asked, regaining his posture and facing her, his cockiness now replaced with unease. 

“I barely got away” she exaggerated, of course she had a skirmish with a guard of the Pale, who had realised what she traded and wanted a cut of the deal. Her hood had been up and her face obscured, by the time he awoke he would have realised it wasn’t worth pursuing her, but Romlyn didn’t need to know that. 

“I’ll expect more silver, you know, in case the guard tracks me down and I have to bribe him, for  _ both _ of our sakes” Amalthea smirked. 

“I can’t pay you anymore” Romlyn had groused, until he spotted her hand twitch to the hilt of her sword, “alright, alright! How about this? A room with a tub of hot water in return? Keerava owes me a favour anyway”. It did sound like a tempting payment, she could scrub the gods knows how many days worth of grime from her skin and hair and sleep in a proper warm bed. 

“Alright, on this occasion I’ll agree” Amalthea grinned, before swiping a bottle of mead from his table and leaving his home. 

She would need to fetch her belongings from the bunkhouse, she was paying for a bed and a locked trunk in nightly installments, leaving her the opportunity to leave whenever she needed to - or when she was forced to. 

“Romlyn called in a favour for me” she had explained to Haelga when she retrieved her small satchel from her trunk, “but I’ll probably be back tomorrow”. 

“It's a shame, “ the Nord smiled slightly, “you have better manners than most dear”. 

When Amalthea had entered the tavern, the room was already bustling with patrons, drunkenly singing along to the bard and she explained to the Argonian bartender that her  _ friend _ had booked her a room for the night. 

“Whatever you did for him must have been important for Romlyn to call in that favour” the Argonian huffed as she ascended the staircase to show Amalthea her room. She had shrugged in response and thanked her before closing the door for some privacy: it was a small room, but she couldn't complain compared to her shared quarters in the bunkhouse. Amalthea stripped off her dirty clothes and lay them across the only chair in the room, barely furnished: a medium sized bed in the corner, a table and chair and fireplace, now with a wooden tub of clean, warm water before it. Stripped naked, Amalthea sunk into the clean water, using the jug that had been left on the floor to rinse her hair, and Keerava had kindly left some cleaning oils for her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a bath, only rarely did she embrace the cold water of the rivers and stream to bathe, but she was too lazy to often fight off the mudcrabs for peace. 

Once she had decided she was suitably clean, Amalthea rose from the water and waited for the water to evaporate in the war room, using the clean linen only to rub her wet hair slightly dry. Retrieving a thin piece of leather from her satchel, Amalthea braided her damp hair into a plait and tied it in place. She hadn’t brought much in the way of material possessions with her, a journal with spells and recipes she had learnt, her coin purse and a few small bottles of health and magicka potions wrapped up in a clean tunic. Occasionally, when she was on the road, there would be food and her canteen filled with spring water, and whatever plants or eggs she had found on the road. She pulled the clean, dark blue tunic over her head and pulled on her dark hosen, preferring the darker colours as they gave her the ability to blend in with the shadows and showed up the blood and dirt less. Amalthea took her dirty tunic and washed it in the bath water before dragging the wooden stool before the fireplace and laying it across: the telltale rumble of her empty stomach reminding her that she needed to eat. 

Amalthea pulled on her leather boots deciding to forgo her leather corset and bracers, opting for her belt at her waist and her steel dagger: she doubted she was in any more danger tonight than the others. Her two tunics were originally intended for men, but she found the oversized fit more comfortable than the ones intended for women, and it didn’t expose too much of her neckline or her chest if she kept them tightened. Her other accessories were simple, it made sense not to carry too many valuables on the road, but around her neck she wore an amulet of julianos and her mother’s silver wedding ring on a chain, two silver rings in her ears and a silver ring on her thumb: purely for aesthetic reasons but in the back of her mind she knew they were useful bargaining tools if she ran out of money. Retrieving a few pieces of silver from her coin purse, Amalthea headed back downstairs. 

Intent on spending the money she had saved from her night off from the bunkhouse, she ordered a stew of cheese and potatoes, a large chunk of bread, a sweet roll and a pint of black briar mead. 

“Are you sure you have room for all of this?” Talon-Jei joked, regarding her slight, lean frame. 

“I might end up ordering more,” Amalthea replied, handing over her coins and filling her tankard with the mead, ordering a second bottle to take to her table. She was used to skipping meals and eating what she could find or hunt on the road, when the opportunity arose to fill her stomach, she was going to take it. 

Finding a small, empty table in the corner of the room, Amalthea sat and waited for her food to arrive, watching the bard attempting to entertain the drunken patrons. When Keerava arrived with a large tray filled with her food, Amalthea was already halfway through her first drink and ready to eat: placing the bowl and plates on her table, Keerava informed her, 

“There was a Nord in earlier asking about a companion for hire” but Almathea’s mind was already on her food. 

“Tell him to come find me in the morning,” Almathea replied, tearing her bread into pieces ready to dunk into her stew. 

Enjoying her food and watching some of the drunken revellers enjoying their evening, the atmosphere less chaotic than the drunken brawls she had seen in other taverns. She was just about to finish her stew and move onto her sweet roll when a rather large, blonde haired Nord sank into the chair opposite her. 

“Keerava said there was a sellsword bouncing around, but I wasn’t expecting such a small woman” he slurred, banging his tankard onto her table and spilling some of its contents: Amalthea shot him a withering look before shooting a glance to the two Argonian behind the bar that only offered her an apologetic shrug. 

“ _ Spellsword _ ” Almathea corrected him and drained her own tankard before refilling it. 

“And what’s the difference?” he enquired, a look of drunken interest plastered across his face. 

“When you hire me you get both my sword and my magickal skills. I left the College of Winterhold as a skilled pyromage, but I know enough restoration and illusion spells that prove quite useful, like healing hands” Almathea explained, it had been a while since she had properly put her talents to good use and now appeared the opportunity: even if it took the shape of a large, badly smelling, drunken Nord. 

Seeing the confused look on his face, she added, 

“Fire spells, I cast damaging fire spells. Now what would you need to hire me for? Protecting you from drunken bar brawls?” she mocked. 

“Well the Dragonborn does need some looking after” he laughed in return, “but more companionship than anything, travelling across Skyrim on your own does get pretty dull. I could use a drinking buddy”. 

Amalthea rolled her eyes and replied, “yeah and I’m the hero of Kvatch”. 

“I’m serious,” the Nord replied, trying to imitate sincerity in his tone, “I’ll pay whatever your hiring fee is within reason, and you’ll get a split of the costs when we’re dungeon crawling and taking out dragons”. 

For a moment Almathea considered it, 

“500 septims and an even split of the costs” she stated, sipping at her mead. 

“ _ 400  _ septims and a 60/40 split, but you get to keep whatever potions you find when we’re exploring” he tried to haggle, a drunken smirk on his face.

Amalthea shook her head and replied, 

“You think I’d risk my life on so little a bargain?” she scoffed, “no deal buddy, find some other fool” hoping he’d take the hint and leave her table. 

“It’s your loss really,” he replied and seemed to take the hint, rising from her table with a shrug, leaving her to her own company. 

Chewing at her sweet roll, the telltale throbbing of her forehead warned her a headache was fast approaching. The tavern was louder than the bunkhouse but certainly more entertaining, she normally got bored of watching the male inhabitants trying to seduce Haelga to no avail and usually would end up drinking on her bed alone. 

“So have you managed to find honest work as a sellsword then?” Romlyn smirked as he slid into the now empty seat. Amalthea pinched the bridge of her nose with a sigh, what gave them the impression she wanted company tonight? And why could nobody get her profession right?

“The pay wasn’t good enough to risk my life” Amalthea explained, ignoring her need to correct him. “Looks like I’m keeping company with bootleggers longer than I expected it”. 

“I can think of some other ways I can keep your company” the dunmer added, looking her up and down slowly. Amalthea resisted the urge to give him a sharp kick under the table. 

“I’m flattered but no thanks” instead she responded with a roll of her eyes and took her empty dishes back to the bar. 

“You didn’t have to bring them back, Keerava probably would have gotten them” Talon-Jei told her, polishing a tankard with his cloth. 

“I was coming this way anyway” Amalthea replied, and ordered another bottle to take to her room before wishing him a goodnight. Ascending the staircase to the first floor, Amalthea headed into her room for the night, kicking off her leather boots: she pulled her bag underneath her bed, placing her boots and discarded clothing with them, her sword by the bed and her dagger under her pillow. A paranoid precaution. Sitting on the bed and drinking her bottle of mead, Amalthea could hear the distant sound of the revellers below, it was louder here than the bunkhouse but nothing got in the way between her and sleep. In moments like these she wished she’d brought a book with her, disappointed not to find one on her nightstand like in some other taverns she’d stayed in. There was an odd book or two in the bunkhouse, but she didn’t really want to think of those: for a while during her travellers she’d bring a book with her, selling it to a merchant or barman when she was finished and buying another, but staying in taverns and inns all the time became too costly when there was no work, and a book was an extra item to carry. 

Sinking back onto her bed, Amalthea looked at the ceiling and thought of Romlyn’s proposition. It had been a while since she’d felt a warm body beside her, and though she missed the sensation of skin against skin, she really didn’t have the energy to  _ entertain  _ anybody this evening. It had been a while since she had slept with someone, perhaps she’d entertain the possibility another time. Amalthea drained the last of her bottle, hoping it was enough to grant her a deep sleep. 

  
  


She awoke to the morning sun streaming in through the window, the sound of patrons enjoying their breakfast down below. Amalthea sat up and stretched, the bones of her back clicking into place before getting out of bed: she was a reluctant early riser, she awoke early as it made travelling easier, but if she could waste time in bed she would have. Pulling on her boots, Amalthea tucked her tunic into her hosen and tightened her leather corset around her waist: just about flexible enough to allow her to move freely, whilst giving her a small form of protection from smaller blades. She attached her belt at her waist and fixed her steel sword to it, she tucked her bracers, now dry tunic and cloak into her bag and slung it over her shoulder. For a moment she stalled before heading out the door, returning to the bed to reorganise the pillow and pull the blanket neatly across. 

Descending the staircase, Amalthea complemented Keerava on the cleanliness of the room and paid for a piece of bread with a silver coin for her breakfast: the Argonian asked her if she planned to stay another night, but the few coins she had in her bag answered that question. 

“It's a nice tavern you keep Keerava, if I had more coin I would” she smiled slightly offering her a slight shrug and heading out the door. Her plan for the day was simple, she’d return her belongings to the bunkhouse and pay for another night, eating her bread roll in the market and looking for work. 

Paying Haelga for the same bed and lockable trunk, the Nord welcomed her in her return and gave her the key. 

“I do appreciate you letting me pay on a nightly basis” Amalthea smiled whilst checking the contents of her purse, after Romlyn’s payment she only had enough coin for another night or two if she was including meals as well: she needed another job. 

With her belongings safely locked away, Amalthea tucked the key into her pocket and asked Haelga as she was leaving, 

“If you hear any word of someone looking for a hired hand, send them my way” she’d asked it so often now but with no result - if it continued this way she’d have to accept the  _ dragonborn’s _ offer. 

Heading to the market, Amalthea apologised to the beggar that she had no coin to spare, and hopped up onto the wall to sit and watch the tradesmen hawk their wares again. Today Brynjolf was hawking some sort of miracle elixir that had gained the attention of the market sellers who had gathered to listen to what he was saying. The promises he was making sounded like horsehit to her, but something strange caught the corner of her eye: sitting on a crate across from her, the dunmer pawnbroker Brand-Shei had gathered to watch Brynjolf try and sell his falmer blood elixir and he didn’t seem too invested, but what had caught her attention was the movement of his pocket on his back: it moved in such a strange direction that it was impossible to be caused by a breeze, and the air around the market was remarkably still. She knew someone was under some spell or potion to cause invisibility, allowing them to sneak around the market pickpocketing those that had gathered there. Amalthea quickly realised that Brynjolf was causing a diversion for them, but she had no interest in calling for the guards, it didn’t benefit her in any way. 

She waited and watched, spotting the figure suddenly re-appear closer to one of the stalls, the sudden emergence going unnoticed by the crowd facing the other direction. Despite their returning visibility, the young Nord attempted to open the strongbox that was now before their face, only to send a load of the weapons on display above him clattering to the floor. The young Nord attempted to make a break for it, the crowd calling out to “ _ stop the thief _ ” and chasing after him. The heavy hand of a Rift guard caught him in place. The merchants began to rummage around in their pockets, waiting to see if they had anything stolen, only for the dunmer to realise he had been given something instead. Amalthea watched as he pulled a ring out of his pocket in confusion, adamantly declaring to the crowd that he hadn’t stolen it and must have been incriminated. 

They had her full attention now, wondering if they would believe him. 

“You couldn’t have possibly taken it whilst I was stood there” the Argonian jeweler appeared to believe him. Enrage they both confronted the young thief, forcing the guard to turn out his pockets on the street. A handful of jewels and a necklace, not that much considering, but she wondered why he had been asked to incriminate Brand-shei. The poor lad didn’t have enough to bribe the guard, and she doubted the two merchants would look the other way to a thief, and Amalthea watched as he was dragged away to the Keep. As Brynjolf passed behind her, she called out to him,

“It does appear your luck has run out lad” with a smirk mimicking his accent as best she could, surprised he didn’t stab her in the back. 

Amalthea sat on the wall in the sunlight, speaking occasionally with the vendors and only moving to purchase an apple and a bottle of mead. She watched as the drunken Nord from the night before appeared, to sell some random items from his pockets to the vendors, unfortunately for her he had spotted her and called out to her, 

“Had anymore thought about my offer?” with a grin. 

“Not worth my time” Amalthea called back and watched as he headed over to the blacksmith’s with his sword. 

When the sun began to set and the vendors began closing up their shops, Amalthea began heading back to the bunkhouse, catching the gossip of merchants about the local orphanage: she heard of how a young boy had run away from the orphanage all the way back to his home in Winterhold despite his family being dead. Amalthea’s mind began to run, even a child homesick wouldn’t travel days across a dangerous landscape on his own if he was being well looked after. The thought plagued her as she sat down at the dinner table in the bunkhouse, distracted from conversation and her stew. 

Amalthea turned to Haelga’s niece and asked, 

“What do you know about the orphanage? Are the children there well looked after?”. 

With a scoff Svana replied between mouthfuls of food, 

“Better than starving on the cold streets, they call her  _ Kind _ as a joke, not that those poor children ever see it” At her own words the young Nord appeared saddened, Amalthea knew she had a sensitive heart. 

“So why doesn’t anyone do anything about it?” Amalthea asked in return, between mouthfuls of her stew. 

“The orphanage is privately funded by Maven Black-Briar, she has Grelod in her pocket which is why she’s put in charge. I’m sure if Constance took over those children would be treated better”. 

That night Amalthea lay awake in bed, thinking about what Svana had said: if an opportunity arose that got rid of Grelod, surely the other woman could take over and treat those poor urchins better. Unable to sleep she knew what she needed to do, aware of the consequences of if she was caught: if she had to flee the city so be it, and she’d broken out of a prison before, how hard could this one be? Amalthea left her sword by the side of her bed, opting to take only her dagger for silence and speed, throwing on her cloak and pulling up her hood. 

Making sure the rest of the bunkhouse’ inhabitants were sound asleep, Amalthea snuck out of the building. Taking advantage of the shadows, she waited until the guards had passed before hiding behind walls and barrels, crossing into the market to hide behind the stalls before finally reaching the orphanage door. Now here she realised there was no turning back, casting a muffling spell to quieten her footfall, Amalthea turned the door handle and snuck into the building. 

The rooms were dimly lit in candlelight as she slowly crept forward as silently as possible, and in the distance she could hear the murmuring of conversation: she had hoped the witch would have been sleeping, making the kill easy and quiet, but now she would have to wait until her companion left so as not leave any witnesses. Until she heard a sound that caused her to jump upright and run into the room. 

“ _ Arentino sends his regards _ ” before the unmistakable sound of a woman crying out replied. With her blade now in her hand, Amalthea rushed into the main room, surprised to see the small gathering of children awake and standing in the doorway. Amalthea pushed passed them, concerned by their lack of reaction and stepped into the room before them.

Standing over the body of the woman she could only assume was Grelod the Kind, was the drunken Nord from the night before, only now remarkably sober. At the sight of her he sheathed his weapon and Amalthea watched as the front of her green dress began to redden. 

“It seems we had the same idea” Amalthea murmured in surprise. 

“Did the Dark Brotherhood send you?” the Nord turned and asked her, stepping over the woman’s body. 

“This was a Brotherhood contract?” Amalthea’s eyes widened, glad she was not the one who had orchestrated the kill. 

The man shook his head and explained, 

“I heard rumours that an old friend of mine had died and wondered what had happened to his daughter. I paid a visit to the orphanage a few days ago looking for her, but she wasn’t here. I did witness the cruelty of their headmistress however, and the children told me one of their friends had escaped home to perform the black sacrament to summon them”. 

“I heard the child myself a few days ago, it's why I came here myself, but if you’ve just taken one of their contracts boy are you in trouble” Amalthea sheathed her daggers and rubbed the back of her neck. 

Turning to the children she was surprised to see they were reasonably calm, despite the bloodshed and violence, they must have really hated this witch: if the rumours were true, she had given them every reason to do so. 

“Now that Grelod is dead, I am sure Constance will take over and look after you properly” Amalthea reassured the only child that was crying. 

“Speaking of…” the Nord interrupted, “where did she go? She was trembling in fear not a moment again”. Worry began pooling in the pit of her stomach as she began searching the building realising the woman was nowhere to be found. 

“ _ Shit _ …” Amalthea murmured, “she must have run off and got the guard we’ve gotta -”

“ _ By order of the Jarl stop right there _ ” guard stood in the doorway, sword already unsheathed and Constance cowering behind him. 

“We’re done for” Amalthea muttered to the Nord beside her, even though she had no hand in the killing, she was still standing beside the body with the killer, it was good enough. “How much silver do you have on you? We might be able to bribe them both if we put our money together”.

“I have a better plan” the Nord smirked before stepping forward, showing the guard his weapon was sheathed and he meant no harm.

“As the Dragonborn, leader of the Companions and Thane of Whiterun I’m sure we can come to an agreement” the Nord smirk, his hand slowly twitching towards the hilt of his sword. Amalthea half expected the guard to arrest them anyway, what good was informing him he was the Thane of Whiterun? It held no power here. 

“You’re the legendary Dragonborn?” the guard gasped, stepping forward. “I had heard the rumours but didn’t realise it was true! You took down Alduin himself! What are you doing in Riften?” The guard had practically ignored the dead woman still bleeding out in the backroom for the vague suggestion the killer was the mythic hero of Skyrim. 

“Well my housecarl and I had heard rumours of the headmistresses cruelty, I had come looking for someone actually luckily they weren’t here, naturally I couldn't leave the children in such terrible hands” Amalthea heard his attempt at faked sincerity which the guard had bought as well, she rolled her eyes, why did she never get caught by such a gullible guard and to call her his  _ housecarl _ ? He knew she couldn’t argue with him if she wanted to get out of here without being punished. 

“Well I guess just this once I can look the other way Dragonborn, I’ll tell the Jarl some assassin snuck in and killed her, but if I catch you breaking the law again…” Amalthea wondered how weak his threat was. 

“You can’t let them go, they killed Grelod” the young woman stammered out in fear. 

“I’m sure she had it coming anyway” the guard muttered, gesturing for them both to leave. As he headed for the door, Amalthea quickly caught up to the side of the Nord, murmuring to Constance before she left, 

“I’m sure you’ll do a much better job looking after them properly” hoping her words would reassure her somehow. 

By the time Amalthea stepped out onto the street, the Nord was leaning against the wall of the market waiting for her. 

“Now do you believe I’m the Dragonborn?” he asked her with a smirk, retrieving two bottles of mead from gods knows where and offering her a bottle. 

“I’d hardly take the word of a gullible guard as proof” Amalthea smirked back, pulling the cork out with her teeth and spitting it to the floor. “But you convinced him well enough that he let us both go. If you were right about the Brotherhood, if we were in prison we would have been easy targets for them to pick off, and this is certainly  _ not _ how I plan on going out”. 

“I guess it’ll take me taking down a dragon before I can finally convince you” he laughed softly, “but you won’t see any dragons in here, 500 septims for your companionship, 50/50 on whatever we find in dungeons  _ but _ I keep all the septims on whatever dragon parts I get my hands on and can sell, sound like a fair deal?”. 

Between swigs of her mead Amalthea thought on his words, he was finally agreeing to pay her fee plus a fair share of treasure, she doubted this drunkard could take down a dragon anyway, if he could whatever it left behind was his. She was finally offered the work she had set out to do, how could she say no? She couldn’t keep running bootleggers errands all her life. 

She offered out her hand and replied, 

“ _ Deal _ …. But I still don’t know what your name is”. 

“ _ Balimund _ and you?” he replied with a grin, shaking her small hand a little too tightly. 

“Amalthea” and she stopped him before he said what she knew he was thinking, “yes I’m not from round here” and rolled his eyes. 

“ _ Now _ … you said something about taking down dragons?”

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who recently played through the Dawnguard questline for the first time? it me ^-^  
> as a forewarning this fic will be taking a backburner to my main fic "The Flower of Markarth", so I'll be updating this on a one/twice weekly basis! <3


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